Dave, were out of sunflower oil and theres barely enough washing powder left for one load, Emily stood in the doorway, drying her damp hands on her apron. We really ought to pop to the shops; the lists getting long.
Dave, glued to the telly where a nerve-wracking football match was playing, gave a grumpy shrug without so much as glancing her way.
Em, you know how it is, he sighed, eyes fixed on the screen. Theres been more delays at the warehouse. The line manager reckons nobodys seeing a bonus this month. I handed over the last £20 to you the other day. Best make it stretch.
Emily exhaled heavily. Shed been hearing this make it stretch line for nearly half a year now. As if the family budget were an elastic band that could stretch forever. She returned quietly to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and stared drearily at a lone jar of gherkins and a pot of leftover soup from yesterday. The soup was thin, made on chicken wings, because they hadnt bought proper meat in nearly a month.
Emily worked as a senior nurse at the city GP surgery. Her pay was steady, but nothing to write home about. Back when Dave was bringing in good money they got by alright: a seaside holiday each year, decent new clothes now and then, and the fridge stuffed with food. But then, according to Dave, there was a crisis at the warehouse. Wages were cut, bonuses scrapped, and he started bringing home nothing more than a pittance just enough to cover the bills and his petrol.
So all the shopping, food, and household bits fell on Emilys shoulders. She picked up extra shifts, came in on weekends, just to get by. And Dave Well, he came home shattered, flopped on the sofa, moaned about how unfair the world was, but still demanded a proper three-course meal.
Make it stretch, Emily muttered, staring at the empty butter dish. You stretch things too far, itll snap.
The next day, after her shift, Emily popped into Tesco as usual. She stood ages by the meat counter, eyeing juicy pork shoulder, but in the end picked up a tray of chicken livers. Cheap as chips. Braise them with some cream and theyre decent enough. At the till she emptied her purse down to the last 50p. Three days to payday, and she had zilch left.
That evening, while the livers simmered away, she decided to dust the hallway. Dave was already snoring on the sofa, having polished off a big dinner and a couple tins of lager (which, according to him, he bought with spare change).
Straightening Daves coat, she noticed something bulky in the inside pocket. She knew she shouldnt snoop, but the habit of checking pockets before washing took over. Her hand closed on a folded slip of paper.
It was a receipt but not from Sainsburys or the corner shop. It was an ATM slip, printed that very night at 6:45pm. Emily unfolded it, feeling her stomach drop.
Balance: £3,450.
She blinked, sure shed misread, but the numbers were clear. And right above, in neat print: Latest deposit: £780.
Seven hundred and eighty quid. But hed given her just twenty, said it was all hed got.
Emily slumped onto the hallway stool, head spinning. She remembered trudging through town last month in her leaky old boots after Dave told her, Just hold on, love, no cash at all. She remembered skipping the dentist, killing the pain with tablets, and those endless chicken wings.
Hurt, hot and sharp as vinegar, welled up in her chest. It wasnt even anger, it was pure betrayal. While she counted pennies on sanitary pads and tea, he hoarded thousands. For what? A new car? A woman on the side? Or just selfishness, thinking his wife ought to feed the family single-handed?
Emily quietly slipped the slip of paper back in his pocket. She wanted to storm in, wake him and throw it in his face kick up a row, smash plates, boot him out. But she held herself in check. No point screaming hed just make excuses, say it was for a surprise, or blame the bank.
No, shed handle it differently.
She returned to the kitchen, turned off the heat, and moved the cooked chicken livers into a container. But rather than putting it in the main fridge, she tucked it in her workbag.
If theres no money, theres no money, she thought with a grim little smile.
Next morning, she slipped out for work earlier than usual didnt even bother making Dave breakfast. Just left an empty plate and a Post-It: Sorry, out of food, no money. Have some water.
All day she breezed through her shift on autopilot, mind whirring with ideas for the evening. At lunch, for the first time in ages, she treated herself to a proper pie and mash at the canteen, with a cup of tea AND a cake. Ate every bit, feeling satisfied.
That evening she strolled home light-handed no heavy carrier bags, no struggle. Her hands were free, back straight.
Dave met her at the door, looking thunderous.
Em, whatve you been up to? Im starving. Theres nothing not even eggs! Did you not go to the shop?
Emily slipped off her coat, stepped over his shoes, and wandered into the lounge.
No, Dave, I didnt.
What dyou mean, you didnt? he trailed her in, eyes bugged. So whats for dinner then?
Nothing for dinner, she said, settling on the sofa and picking up her book. Told you the other night, no money till payday. Managed on tea myself at work. Just have to cope, love. Its this crisis, isnt it?
Dave gawked.
Youre kidding? Wheres the soup? You always make something work!
Well, love, me magics run out. You cant make cutlets from thin air. I paid the bills and travel out of my last pennies. Thats it, budgets empty.
Dave stood there, mouth opening and closing, expecting, no doubt, that Emily would work one of her miracles borrow from a mate, dig out a secret stash (as if every woman has one) or scrape up a meal from the depths of the larder.
Honestly he muttered. So what am I supposed to do?
Have a glass of water. Or just have an early night hunger doesnt bite so bad when youre asleep.
Dave threw a strop and stomped into the kitchen. Emily heard him rustling through cupboards and clattering pots. Soon she smelt boiling pasta: plain, without so much as a knob of butter or a sausage. Perfect dinner for a man with three grand in the bank.
Next day, same story. Emily ate a proper lunch out, treated herself to a latte and a pastry in the park, and walked home calm and full.
Dave met her with less confusion this time, more outright fury.
This isnt funny, Em! Second day in a row on dry pasta! You taking the mick? Whos supposed to run this house?
Im your wife, Dave, not a magician, she shot back. Cant shop with fresh air. Give me some money, Ill bring in the shopping, make a roast, fry some cutlets. Simple as.
I told you, Ive got nothing! he snapped, eyes darting away. Its not come in!
Well, nor have I. So, diet it is. Good for the health, probably.
That night Dave stormed out, came back an hour later reeking of kebabs. Emily noted, silently, that hed found money for kebab in seconds yet brought nothing home.
A whole week carried on like this. The house turned cold, the crackling tension hanging in the air. Emily stopped cooking, stopped clearing Daves dirty dishes (which hed just leave lying around) didnt even bother washing his shirts.
Theres no powder shed answer when he moaned about muddy work shirts. None left. Cant buy any, no cash.
Dave got grouchy, puffy tried tugging on her heartstrings, then her conscience.
You dont care any more! he screamed one Friday night. I work all day, come home to pigsty! Nothing to eat, shirts a mess! Whats the point of having a wife?
Whats the point of having a husband? She looked him dead in the eyes. One who cant so much as put a loaf of bread or a box of powder on the table? I work too, Dave. Im knackered just the same. But somehow the cooking, the bills all thats MY problem.
Cos youre the woman! Its your duty!
My dutys to love and care for someone who cares for me in return. This isnt a one-way street.
Saturday morning Emily woke to a delicious smell eggs and sausage frying away. In the kitchen Dave was sat at the table, tucking into a hot breakfast with toast and a mug of coffee.
He coughed when he saw her but pulled himself together.
Up at last, eh? There was a bit of loose change in my winter coat, so I nipped out for groceries.
Emily sat down. On the table: expensive sausage, posh cheese, a proper dozen fresh eggs. Loose change, eh? she thought wryly.
No thanks, Im not hungry, she lied, curious to see how far hed push it. Tuck in, youll need your strength.
Dave kept his eyes low, eating in silence. Hunger beat embarrassment, clearly.
Eventually he started, swallowing his toast: Listen, Em lets pack in this nonsense. I borrowed £50 off Tom. Here go do a big shop, will you? Make some soup. We cant go on like this.
He slid a £50 note across the table. Emily looked at the money, then at her husband.
Borrowed from Tom, did you? Thats nice of him. And youll pay him back how, seeing as youve got no wages?
Ill manage! he growled. Thats my business. Off you go, get some food in.
Emily turned the note in her hands.
Fine. Ill shop but just for myself. You go eat at Toms, since hes so generous.
You what? Dave shot up, knocking his chair. I gave you money! Thats OUR money! For the family!
Family, is it? Emily stood, her voice suddenly razor-sharp. So when you pocketed that £780 three days ago, whose money was that? And the £3,450 in your account is that your private little rainy day fund? For starving husbands?
Dave froze. His face went pale, then red, then even paler.
You you been through my pockets? You spying on me?
Dont you dare, Dave. I found the slip by accident while putting your coat away. And you know whats worse? Not that youre hiding cash but standing there, watching me scrape by, watching me go around in leaky boots and skip the dentist, while youre hoarding stacks of money. Have you no shame?
I was saving! Dave yelled, banging the table with his fist. I was saving for a car! Mines knackered! I wanted to surprise you! Youre just money-hungry!
A surprise? Emily gave a bitter laugh. A surprise is when you buy a car without letting your wife starve. Or when you decide together to save for something. What youve done is just mean-spirited. You lived off me, off my pay, while stashing yours away. You leeched off me, Dave.
What do you know! Im a bloke, I need a decent motor. Cant look like a prat in front of the lads! And you, with your chicken livers Its just a month of scrimping! Didnt kill you!
Didnt kill me, Emily nodded. But something in me did die. My respect, my trust.
She put the £50 back on the table.
Take your money. Buy yourself a ticket out.
Where? Dave spluttered.
To your bright future. Or your mums. Or wherever you fancy. Im done living with someone who thinks Im just the help, or a mug.
Youre chucking me out? Over money? Dave was genuinely flummoxed. To him it was nothing much: a bit of cunning, some savings, all in a good cause.
Not because of money, Dave. Because of your attitude. Pack your bags.
He didnt go straight away. There was a long, nasty row. He shouted, blamed, then pleaded, then promised her a fur coat (with the very money hed been hiding). Emily stayed firm. She saw him clearly for the first time miserly, petty, hysterical, and a complete stranger.
By the evening, his bag was packed.
Youll regret this, you know! he hissed on the threshold. Whos going to want you at forty-five? Youll be left all alone with your cats! Ill find myself a proper wife who appreciates a man!
Good luck, Emily said softly, and shut the door.
When the lock clicked, she slid down to the floor, drained and empty. She wanted to cry but felt nothing but an aching hollow.
She wandered into the kitchen. That fancy sausage Dave bought was still on the counter. Emily picked it up and dropped it straight in the bin. Opening the fridge, she found it almost bare, save for her own tub of chicken livers, which shed forgotten about.
Never mind, she said aloud. At least now I know exactly where my moneys going.
A month later.
Emily was strolling home from work, no rush. May was just starting, the air fresh and filled with the scent of lilacs. She popped into her favourite Waitrose, wandered the aisles, taking her time.
In her basket went: a jar of red caviar on special, a wedge of blue cheese, a bottle of crisp white wine, fresh veg, a salmon fillet.
At the checkout, she tapped her bank card, no worries. Turned out living alone was a bargain bills were down, shopping cheaper, no more spending on beer, fags, petrol money, or endless give us a tenner, love.
At home she put on her favourite playlist, cooked her fish, poured herself a glass of wine, and settled by the window with the sunset.
Her phone pinged. It was a message from Dave.
All right, Em? How are you? Fancy meeting up for a chat? Ive been thinking. I was wrong. Didnt buy the stupid car. Got money saved. Lets start over? I miss you.
Emily stared at the message, sipped her chilly wine. She remembered his face, sneering at chicken livers. Remembered the humiliation, begging for money for laundry powder.
She deleted the message and blocked his number.
I missed you too, she said softly to her reflection in the window, Missed the real me. Missed my life. And I wont give it away again.
Next day, Emily bought herself a proper pair of boots. Pricey, made of soft leather Italian, no less. And booked a two-week spa retreat on the coast. Her own hard-saved cash covered the lot.
Turns out, life after a break-up doesnt end. It gets tastier. And a whole lot more honest.
